


Stacking Eggs

by ladycyon



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2003), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blood and Gore, Episode: s03e21 Same As It Never Was, Gen, Horror, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-15 17:56:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7232791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladycyon/pseuds/ladycyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donatello watched his brothers die, saw it happen with his own two eyes. He was sent to a bad place. What if his brothers went to bad places too?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home

  * **Donatello**



They come back like this: a heap of battered bodies, everything covered in blood, the sharp scent of fear. Raphael collapses to the floor and Mikey isn’t standing to begin with; he’s curled into a ball, so small and so quiet Don barely even notices him.

And Don - he just stands there, feeling as if his insides have been carved out with a spoon. Hollow. Because the sight of his brothers on the floor makes him remember the sight of them dead. It’s all he can see. His brothers, all dead.

Then he sees Leo, who is a dark mass of bruised meat standing before him, barely recognizable beneath a layer of grime, sweat and dried blood and Lord only knows. Leonardo is clutching his swords. He looks dangerous. He looks _exhausted_ , out of breath and heaving for air. Don blinks and he feels a prickling sensation at the back of his eyes. Leo looks terrible and murderous and frightening, but he looks alive and that is enough to make Don want to cry with relief. He wants to hug his only older brother and sob like a baby, but…

He looks at Leo and fear lances him through the gut.

Leo has not relaxed, still looks ready to use his weapons. Don thinks he looks like a cornered animal; his eyes roll around the room, his gaze finds Don.  He bares his teeth, hisses. His teeth are stained with blood.

“Leo?” Don has never seen this look before. He knows, instinctively, that he could be in very real danger. Twin blades flash as Leo turns to face him. He begins to move forward at a dead run.

“Leo, stop!” Don yelps, barely dodging the attack in time, ducking low to avoid being decapitated by his older brother’s weapons. Don swings out a leg to trip him up but Leo leaps over the attempted sweep easily. Leo offers a rebuttal kick of his own, catching Don in the jaw, knocking him flat on his back.

Winded and gasping, instinct alone has Donnie rolling off to the side, barely in time. Leo’s katana sinks into the floor only inches from his face, right where he had been just seconds before. Fear pounds through him as he realizes Leo is outright trying to kill him. This is not his brother, no way it can be.

Something is very, very wrong.

The blue-masked turtle’s shadow falls across him as he looms over Donatello, eyes dark with deadly intent. He plants a foot on Donnie’s chest, pinning him to the floor. He raises his sword.

“LEO,” Don barks, grabbing Leo’s ankle, trying to unbalance him.. “It’s me, Donnie. Please!”

Maybe it’s the raw fear in his voice that breaks through. Leo pauses, eyes narrowing as he blinks down at Don. He shakes his head as if to clear it. His hands began to tremble and then he drops his arms, lowering his weapons. Don’s stomach flip-flops with relief as the pressure of Leo’s foot leaves his chest..

“Donnie,” Leo croaks, dropping to his knees. “Thank God.”

Don find himself sitting up, trapped in an iron embrace. Up close, Don notices just how filthy Leonardo is. Leo _stinks_. It makes Don’s eyes water, but he finds he doesn’t care.

Stench can be washed away. Dead can’t.

He hugs Leo back, clinging to him just as fiercely. For a moment, Donatello allows himself to believe everything might turn out okay.

And then he hears Raphael scream. 

 

  * **Raphael**



He is somewhere else now. That’s all he knows.

He is lightheaded and dizzy from blood loss, facts he can pay attention to, now that he is no longer fighting for his life. He slumps to his knees, trying not to pass out. It still might not be safe. Around him, there is a commotion of noise. He hears Donatello’s voice, but the tone is alarming, sending a strange mixture of relief and fear singing through Raph’s nerves.

He tries his best to make himself aware of the situation, to _help_ , but he also knows he needs to deal with his own problems, and fast. Blood loss is a bitch. Besides, he can’t see much anyways. He tears the mask off his face and bundles the tattered fabric into a ball. Heaving a deep breath to steel his nerves, he presses the cloth to his ruined eye to staunch the flow of blood.

The pressure makes the pain blossom hot and bright and he can’t help the guttural scream that crawls out of his throat. His muscles tremble and jerk and he can’t hold himself up anymore, falling onto his side; but he keeps the pressure tight tight, knows his life could depend on it so he keeps holding.

He’s doing the exact wrong thing, but how is he to know? 

All he knows is the pain.

And then hands on him.

Strong hands, gentle hands that encompass his own and that is scary because he feels raw and vulnerable and he _hurts_ right there where the hands are. But he knows these hands and he knows he is safe in them. So though his fingers threaten to betray his commands, though they hesitate to obey, he makes them release their grip.

He clutches at whichever brother is bending over him, groaning piteously. Raph tries to writhe away from the pain when the hands move the fabric to check the wound, he doesn’t hear the sharp intake of breath the sight of his face provokes, only feels the second set of hands holding him down, preventing his escape when he can’t take another second of agony.

Raphael begins to panic. The pain is overwhelming him and he can’t get away from it. His amygdala are still in hyper-drive, making him desperate with the need to get away, his entire being distilled into one of the most primordial instincts. He’s lost too much blood though, and his movements are sluggish, his world is spinning.

“Raph… _Raphael_.” Someone is saying his name. _Donnie?_ The voice grounds him, and he stills momentarily, the presence of his brother filling a void inside him. His right eye twitches in its socket, scanning the room before settling on the swimming face above him. He blinks up at Don.

“Where’s Splinter?” he asks, but it comes out garbled and broken. Donnie’s face crinkles in confusion and he shakes his head to indicate he doesn’t understand. Before Raph can try again, he succumbs to unconsciousness.

  * **Michelangelo**



He doesn’t have the energy to move, that’s the hilarious bit. Because he’s spent the most recent segment of his life wishing he were free, and now that he is, he can only lie there. He’s still every bit a prisoner, trapped in his own broken body. Every bit of him hurts and he curls into a ball to protect himself, clumsily scoots himself backwards until his shell meets a wall. Beyond that, he makes no other effort. Around him, he can hear voices, ones that he knows, but they do not process through his mind.

It’s all just sound.

He is still waiting for the next blow. This is another trick. Another punishment. He curls his hands protectively around his middle, tucking his right leg tighter into his chest. His left leg won’t seem to bend, so he leaves it stretched out like an afterthought beneath him. He does not open his eyes.

A pained scream makes his heart race. He begins shaking all over. That’s his brother’s voice, _Raph._ And Mikey is filled with the terror that they are hurting his brother the way they have been hurting him - that the only reason he is free now is because one of his brothers is in his place.

_No._

Terrified, tears leak silently down his face. He can do nothing to help. His body will not respond to his commands. He can’t breathe, his chest hurts. The trembling in his limbs is uncontrollable and his throat burns - his throat always burns. Then the screaming stops and the voices sound calmer now.

Then they move away from him and Mikey realizes he is all alone.

He wants to know _why,_ wants to know where he is. His mind is reeling and he’s still so afraid. But he’s not being hurt right now, and he will settle for that.

He drifts for a while. He goes to a quiet place.

 

  * **Leonardo**



Leo still feels kind of like a rabid dog. Maybe he isn’t foaming at the mouth, but it still seems like he has a violent disease creeping through his veins. He feels naked and vulnerable without his swords, like he’s missing parts of his limbs.

He can’t hold them and help carry Raph at the same time.

His hands are slippery with blood. It’s hard to keep a hold on his brother. Leo has to keep shifting his grip to keep from dropping Raph as he and Donnie carry him to the lab.

 _Donnie._ Leo’s gut clenches.

He almost killed him.

He staggers down the hall, bearing the weight of his brother and the more unfathomable weight of his own guilt. The world looks like a kaleidoscope, all tilting patterns, shifting shapes and colors. He’s so tired, he’s not even sure this is real. He might be dying on the floor, even now - bleeding out and having one last wild hallucination before he snuffs it. Leo figures it’s as likely as not. As sleep deprived as he is, he’s bound to make a mistake sooner or later.

It feels too real though, for him not to leave his swords where they lay on the floor and grab Raph’s legs when Don hisses at him to _help him, dammit._

There’s something about the way Don looks at him with shadows of fear flashing across his features, the awful, tacky feel of fresh blood between his fingers, the way the harsh examination lights in Don’s lab make his vision smear…. No, he decides, this is definitely real. It’s too horribly detailed _not_ to be real.

He’s _home._ It’s starting to sink in.

He helps Don heave Raph up onto the cold metal table and not a second too soon. His legs are already beginning to shake when he hears Donatello snap, _don’t touch him_ before his younger brother scurries off to other parts of the room.

 _Home_. The word repeats in Leo’s mind and his knees buckle. A violent trembling takes up residence in all of his limbs as his muscles relax for the first time in days. He leans on the table to support his weight as he holds himself up with shaking hands. Looking down at his brother, Leo is glad that Raph is unconscious, glad that they don’t have to deal with his fear and pain on top of their own, glad that his brother doesn’t have to _be_ afraid and in pain. At least not for the moment. He can just be asleep.

That seems better.

Beyond that, Leo’s thoughts are as blurry as his vision. He tries to concentrate on what’s important. Right now, that’s staying upright and waiting for Donnie’s instructions. Which amounts to precisely nothing. Still, it’s what he can do.

He keeps vigil over Raphael, swaying slightly and eyes drifting unfocused as Donnie crashes around behind him, pawing through drawers and cupboards and muttering to himself.

It all sort of melds together. He gets that feeling that nothing is real again. Leo blinks and sees a weapon cutting towards him through the dark. He blinks again and it is gone; it was never even there to begin with. Just an instant, a tiny flash of a bad memory. He knows it’s not real. He’s just tired. Just needs some sleep. He’s starting to see things. It’s not even dark in here. His mind is playing tricks.

Whatever he tells himself, it is enough to make his heartbeat gallop in his chest, all his muscles screaming in protest as he tenses up again. He tries to settle his breathing, attempting to exhale the sudden terror that clutches him in one long breath. Then another breath.

And another…

until his limbs start to feel like overcooked spaghetti as the strain leaves him again. He’s home now, _home._ He repeats it. There are no enemies here except the ones he creates. And everything is fine. He repeats that too. Everything is _fine._

Leo looks down at Raphael again.

Well… not fine.

Donnie told him not to touch, but Leo finds he is curious. Carefully he peels back the corner of the cloth to check the wound. Underneath, it’s something out of a horror film. The white of Raph’s eye is red and swollen, bulging out past the socket. The pupil looks like a broken egg yolk. Something jellylike is leaking from the wound. 

Leo takes in the macabre sight with an expressionless face. He doesn’t even feel sick when he looks at it. He knows he _should_ feel sick, but he doesn’t. A cold stone sits in his gut.

He knows Raph is going to lose the eye.

He knows Donnie is still afraid of him _(he should be)_.

He realizes with a start that he _doesn’t_ know where Mikey is, _doesn’t_ know where sensei is.

Another tendril of fear wraps around Leo’s ribcage, squeezes tight until he can barely breathe.

Maybe he’s lying to himself. Maybe things will never be fine again.


	2. After the Horse

  * **Donatello**



Donnie’s jaw aches where Leo had kicked him. It's a dull throbbing pain he barely notices at first, until it radiates to his whole head and he begins to feel the terse _ping_ deep in the grey matter of his brain that signifies an oncoming headache. He rubs his bruised face absently, massaging the muscles there to stave off the inevitable and deliberately relaxes his jaw as he runs through a mental checklist, trying to think if there was anything he's forgetting.

He knows a penetrating globe trauma like Raph’s is a hopeless case in terms of retaining vision, but he had hoped he could save the eye itself. Raphael had good and well destroyed that possibility with the pressure he had put on it. One brief look beneath the bandage back in the living room was all Don needed to see to know he’s going to have to take it out. It's like a squished grape. There's no stuffing that pulpy mess back inside its skin.

Don wants to throw up. He finds he's clenching his jaw again. No good. He can't afford a headache right now. He sets his tongue between his teeth, tries to refocus.

That eye. That stupid left eye. Don thinks of an older version of his brother, the same eye long since sewn shut; a future that Donatello never wants to come to pass. He sees the path to that future. This is how it starts.

What could make him leave his family?

 _Nothing,_  he tells himself stalwartly. 

Antacids do nothing to quell a stomach full of foreboding, but he absentmindedly swallows them out of habit as he clusters the last of the needed supplies together. There’s just one more thing he needs.

He digs to the back of a low cupboard near the corner, questing fingers brushing against cool metal, extracts a small lock box from its hiding place. Donatello produces a key. Inside are a number of small bottles, some filled with liquid, some filled with pills, others still with powders - arguably and by far, these are the most important things in their entire home. Carefully sought and -ahem - _requisitioned_ , Donnie hoards them and guards them more jealously than a dragon. Maybe it’s a reptile thing.

But these… these are important. The drugs that are safe for them to take are few and far between, and being sewer-dwelling mutants has it’s drawbacks, one of them being a lack of access to proper medicine. Hell, even licensed professionals wouldn’t have a clue what they were doing. They would be better off with a vet, Donnie thinks, as degrading as that may be. At least they wouldn’t be killed by improper drug administration.

Not that either option is really an option.

It’s a nice thought, but unfortunately for them all, they are all stuck with what Donnie can pull out of books or off the internet, what he can get away with burgling from pharmacies, vet offices, and med labs, what he can figure out on the fly when it's either learn how to throw a stitch or watch a brother bleed out, set the bone the best you can and pray you haven't crippled your kin for life ( _note to self: invent x-ray specs_ ). Donatello''s medical practices are fast and loose at best, but so far, he's been lucky.

But the drugs...  he doesn't tell his brothers about where he gets the drugs. 

He doesn’t feel good about stealing, but it's necessary. Consider it reparations for services to the city. And it's times like these, that Donatello is glad of his indiscretions. Times like these are  _why_ he does it. As the family doctor, it's his cross to bear.

From the lock box’s contents, he selects two small bottles. One is a powerful antibiotic. The other is labeled _Tramadol._ Through trial and error Donatello has discovered it's the most effective analgesic available to them. More importantly, it doesn’t cause horrifying respiratory depression like morphine. Donnie doesn’t like to think of that particular experiment.

He fills a syringe with the right amount for Raph, hesitates, and fills it a little more. After all, Tramadol isn’t a true anesthetic, but medetomidine-ketamine is much more difficult to come by and the dosage is trickier.

This is infinitely safer, though it is more cruel. He measures what's left in the bottle, thinks _not enough._  But he'll worry about that later. Donatello steels himself for what he needs to do as he carefully locks the rest of the drugs away and returns the box to its hiding place. He gathers his supplies on a tray and finally turns to face his brothers.

The sight that meets him has him flaring like an angry cobra. Seeing Leo leaning heavily over Raph, two fingers poised, pinching the corner of Raph’s makeshift bandage, he wants to hit his brother for being such an idiot.

“Get away from him, you’re filthy!” Donnie’s voice cracks a little as he shouts at Leo. He can practically see the bacteria pouring off Leo's dirty hands and multiplying exponentially in the warm breeding grounds of Raph’s exposed eye.  And Leo... is staring at the wound with the same uncanny expression on his face from before that makes Donnie’s insides feel like curdled milk. It’s a nothing look; a look that makes Donatello think of the vast airless void of space and gaping black mouths of lightless sewer tunnels.  

Leo startles at Donnie’s shout,  snatching his hand away from Raph like he’s been bitten. He turns his gaze, mouth hanging open as he gropes for words.

“Are you _trying_ to give him an infection? No, you're trying to give _me_ an ulcer, right?” Don speaks for him, unable to stop the outpouring of words, the nonstop babble helps Don feel a little less unhinged in times of stress and maybe he's counting on Leo to absorb all that nervous energy the way he always does. Maybe that's not fair, but the words, they get clogged up inside him. He _needs_ to let the stream of consciousness flow to be able to think properly; and all the while the insatiable fear gnawing at him. If he just keeps talking, he can keep it all at bay. 

Which, he seriously  _needs_ to keep his shit together right now. 

Raph’s eye is the worst of it, to be sure, but it isn’t the last of it. There are other wounds besides to attend to. In fact, most of the blood he’s lost has come from cuts on his lower extremities. He needs to patch those up too, needs to establish a sterile environment.

“Sorry, I...” Leo is mumbling excuses, while Don drops everything he can in water boiling on a Bunsen burner but he soon trails off, drifting somewhere far away, somewhere out of reach.

He flinches when Don snaps his fingers at him, utters his name sharply. His arms lift halfway to a fighting stance before Leo blinks down in surprise at his empty, bloodstained hands. “Where are my…”

He stops. His mouth forms into a grim line. He drops his hands to his sides, though Don does not miss the way they curl into tight fists.

“Go clean yourself up,” Don says, softer, tilting his chin towards the door. He's busy dousing every nearby surface with disinfectant. “There’s nothing you can do here right now.”

Leo slides his eyes to the side, stares at Raphael for a long moment. At last he sighs and nods, rubbing a hand tiredly over his eyes. He turns to leave.

Don watches him go, trying not to be trampled by the increasing worry of Leo’s odd behavior. He needs to focus on Raph right now, not Leo. He sets that on a back burner, instead mentally running through the procedure again while he scrubs his hands vigorously.

Then, all is ready.

With dread in his heart, and a headache brewing at the base of his skull, Donatello attends to the task of saving his brother's life.

 

 

  * **Leonardo**



Leo stares at his hands as he trudges from the room. He hopes a hot shower can wash off something more than just what sits on his skin.

He starts down the hallway towards the bathroom, but something stops him. He glances over his shoulder towards the living room, heads that way instead, suddenly intent on recovering his weapons. It just doesn't feel right, not having them. He knows he doesn't need them here in the lair, and he certainly doesn't need them in the shower, but Leonardo  _does_ need them. If only to preserve what is left of his sanity.

_Get away from him, you're filthy._

Leo knows Donnie was talking about germs; but the wording burrows underneath his skin like a parasite.

Donnie didn't know he'd landed a direct hit. He  _can't_ know. Can he?  That Leo  _is_ filthy, right down to the bottom of his soul. Whatever tenuous barriers Leo has constructed around himself, they are crumbling; whatever reserves he's been calling upon, they are swiftly dwindling. Compartmentalization, though a finely honed skill of his, takes him only so far.

Everyone has a breaking point.

Leo wonders where his is. Because though Donnie's words ring true in a way that stings, Leo finds he still feels cold. He keeps expecting to wake up, wonders how he can feel so goddamn tired in a dream.

He needs his swords more than anything else right now. The sprawling shadows flicker with the movements of imaginary enemies and Leo fights the quickening of his breath, reminds himself what's real  - what he _thinks_ is real.

There are bloody footprints in the hallway. In the living room proper, more blood.

His swords are as tarnished as he is, lying abandoned and stained in the middle of the floor. Leo bends to pick them up, but as his fingers brush the pommels, something catches his eye.

_Michelangelo._

The swords are once again forgotten as Leonardo takes in the sight of his brother.  Some things are more important.

Going through the motions is easy, even if he doesn't feel it. Leonardo scrambles across the room, falling to his knees beside the youngest of them. Michelangelo lies motionless, curled in upon himself. 

"Mikey," Leo calls his name before touching him, not wanting to surprise him, but Mikey doesn't respond. Leo brushes his shoulder gently.

Mikey's eyes pop open and he flails wildly, gasping as he presses back against the wall, cringing.  

"Easy, Mikey, it's me." Leo soothes, catching the weak blows Mikey throws at him. At the sound of his voice, Mike stops struggling and sags back to the floor, never really having gotten up in the first place. He lets out a long, shaky sigh and stares up at Leo with big, round eyes that are rapidly filling with tears. He flops a hand towards Leo, fingers groping.

Leo takes his hand. His fingers feel like ice. "Mikey?" Leo asks, as tears pour down Michelangelo's bruised and swollen face. "What hurts?"

Mikey snorts through the tears, a snot bubble forming in one nostril and he makes a sweeping gesture towards the length of his entire body, letting his head flop back down, eyes sliding closed.

Point taken.

"Stay awake Mikey," Leo taps his face with one finger until he opens his eyes again, though Leo feels a hint of something sour when he sees the way even this gentle touch makes his younger brother flinch. He begins to examine Mikey more closely. He seems to be in better shape than Raph - at least, he's not in immediate danger of bleeding out.

He's mottled with bruises, though, and his left knee is swollen and distended. He's not sure how bad it is; Mike won't let him get near it and Leo doesn't push.  _Bad enough_ , he thinks, and continues his examination being careful not to jostle him. He finds a number of small round burns on the bottoms of Mikey's feet, and strange, crisscrossed lacerations across the backs of his legs that look inflamed and painful, more of both on his arms. There's a small crack in his shell, track marks in the crooks of both arms.

Leo is so careful, ghosting over the injuries, barely touching Mikey at all. Nonetheless, Mikey's breathing starts to come in shallow gasps and he screws his eyes closed, tucking his head partially into his shell. Leo doesn't stop what he's doing, can't make himself stop, needs to make himself look at this - though he knows Mikey well enough to know he's on the verge of panicking, knows he runs the risk of causing yet another brother to fear him.

He has to know.

"Not gonna hurt you, Mike," Leo mutters as he works his way towards Mikey's head. His voice is low and rough like a rusty hinge. Mikey nods emphatically, fingers clinging to Leo's forearm, but his breathing doesn't slow. He begins to squirm away from Leo's touch, his head ducking further into his shell. 

Leo huffs in frustration and gives up, pulling abruptly away from Mikey, unsure what to do for him, how to protect him when the damage has already been done.

He thinks of where he's been. He feels every bruise and cut on his body, remembers the stench, the rancor and the struggle, thinks of where his brothers might have been while he was off in far places alone. 

Leo stares at Mikey and wonders what horrors lurk in other worlds. 

Anger coils tight and hot within him as he wonders who or what could have done this to his brother. If he ever finds out...there would be no help for those doomed souls. Leo wants someone to pay for this. _He_ wants to be the one to make them pay. A violent need consumes him. He does not notice the way Mikey begins to tremble more vigorously beside him.

He is lost in vicious thoughts when he senses a presence behind him. He turns, eyes searching, wishing he'd taken the time to sheath his weapons. The thought dies when Leo sees that it is Splinter. He's swiftly crossing the room towards them.

He looks haggard, but seems uninjured. He places a paw on Leo's shoulder and the relief Leo feels leaves him at a loss for words. Leo wonders where he's been, searches his eyes for details of a story he'll likely never hear the truth of. 

Before he can begin to ask, or explain, Splinter turns to Michelangelo, a frown crossing his features. He kneels down, one furry paw extending slowly. His fingers brush the crown of Mikey's head. "Michelangelo," he calls softly.

At the sound of Splinter's voice, Mikey stirs. His eyes peek over the rim of his plastron and he nuzzles into the touch. Splinter gathers his son into his arms.

Leo stands, backing away.  He returns to his swords and wipes them clean on a stray blanket before sliding them home into their sheaths. Their familiar weight on his back echoes the familiar weight of his duties as leader. Did it always feel this heavy? He stares at Mikey across the room, now clinging to Splinter as the old rat gently strokes his head and hums something soft and slow. 

He should go help, he knows, but he thinks of the way Mike flinched away from him, remembers the terrified cadence of Donatello's voice as he begged for his life. He should feel something, he thinks, but all he can do is be glad to be relieved of the responsibility.

He knows he needs to pull himself together. His brothers need him. 

He's just so tired.  He needs a hot shower and some sleep in a real bed. Just that. Then he can pick it back up. He knows he can.

Leo slinks out of the room.  Mikey will be okay with Master Splinter.

Just this once, he doesn't want to have to be the one to carry it all.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leo is so hard to write, I hope I did him justice. And what's up with Mikey anyways? We'll talk about that next time.


	3. A bitter pill

  * **Michelangelo**



At first Mikey thinks they’ve come for him again.

He’s come to expect a familiar chain of events but his captors have been known to mix it up. They did it just enough to make Mikey jumpy and unsure of every sound, never really knowing what was going to happen next. The stress of it gnawed at his empty stomach as much as the hunger did.

They never bothered to feed him (couldn’t eat it anyway), only offered him a few sloppy mouthfuls of water that he choked and sputtered over every other day or so - just enough to keep him alive. Even when he wasn’t sure if he wanted to _be_ alive anymore.

Mikey always crushed the thought. Giving up wasn’t his style, even in the depths of misery.

But the touch-response? That’s Pavlovian, as involuntary as a heartbeat.

Today though… Something’s different about today. His arms are free. Today, he can defend himself. For the first time, Mikey fights back, though his efforts are weakened.

When no pain comes to him, Mikey becomes aware of other differences..

The smell is the first thing he notices. Gone is sharp antiseptic lab odor, replaced by the musty, slightly sweet scent of mildew and mold. He can hear the distant rumble of subway cars, the steady drip of leaking water, the hum of the big auxillary fan, the more subtle hiss of liquids traveling through copper pipes. Familiar scents, familiar sounds.

He hears a voice.

_Leo._

He opens his eyes. There are no fluorescent bulbs beaming down on him. The ceiling is far overhead, intersected by steel supports, familiar brickwork, the second floor balcony that leads to his bedroom.

A face, barely more than a green blur, swims into view.

He begins to cry with relief, unable to stop himself. Every awful thing he endured comes spilling out while he gropes for Leo’s hand, tries to think of a way to articulate to his brother what’s been lost. He  _can’t_ think.

Everything hurts too much. All of it, too much.

He finds he doesn’t like being touched.

He tries to be calm, let Leo look at him. He reminds himself that he’s safe now. But he doesn’t _feel_ safe.

Hands feel like hands feel like hands. Hands bring pain, hands bring weapons, hands bring needles. _It’s Leo_ he thinks, and works to control his breathing, even as it becomes painful, hitching in his chest.

What isn’t painful these days?

He endures.

At least until Leo’s hands reach his upper arms, then Mikey begins to panic.  The closer Leo gets to Mikey’s face, the less he wants his brother to touch him. Besides, he’s starting to notice something about Leo feels _off_ somehow, wrong.

Leo’s fingers brush against him and Mikey sees a picture in his mind of Leo covered from head to toe in something dark and thick and heavy. Something poisonous. The reality isn’t that far off. Leo is barely recognizable beneath layers of filth. His brothers hands are red with blood. He wonders if it’s his own, or someone else’s.

Mikey shudders, his body involuntarily jerking away from his touch.

And with that Leo _stops_ touching him. That is infinitely worse somehow. Leo’s presence beside him grows cold, violent - makes Mikey think of bad things, things he doesn’t want to think about.

But it’s too late, he’s back in that place with the blinding lights, and the suffocating white walls, and the cold metal table and the straps that keep him helpless on his back, always on his back… It’s a place where all he can do is wait for the next horror to reveal itself. All he wants to do is escape.

Leo’s presence feels like something he needs to escape from.

Mikey pulls himself back from that place and scolds himself for the very thought. Leo is his _brother_. He’d never do anything to hurt him. Mikey’s sure of that.

But Leo’s covered in poison and Mikey still burns where Leo touched him.

Overwelmed, he retreats inward, tries to go back to the quiet place that has helped him survive this. Michelangelo pushes away the physical sensations of his body, the perceived sensations of his untrustworthy mind, protects his injured face from prying hands.

If Leo’s touch is poison, then Splinter’s touch is the antidote.

His voice soothes over him like a balm. Calm, steady warmth spreads down through his chest and he can’t get enough, squirms his way closer, tucking himself against Splinter they way he would when he was a small child.

He’s drooling, he realizes. His face is mostly numb, so he can’t feel the dampness of saliva running down his chin; but he can see there’s a growing damp spot on Splinter’s robe where his head rests. He finds he has the wherewithal to to feel embarrassed, tries unsuccessfully to close his mouth.

Mistake.

Numbness bursts into technicolor agony so bright it makes his lungs stutter.  He tenses, pain washing over him in a wave. He rides it out, tries focus on Splinter’s gentle fingers rubbing his scalp - perhaps the one part of him that _doesn’t_ hurt.

Eventually the fiery ache in his jaw burns down to hot embers. Mikey becomes aware of things other than his face. He settles back into Splinter’s lap, blinking quietly up at his father.

Abruptly, his stomach growls and he sees his father’s ears twitch at the sound. For the first time in days, he remembers that he is hungry. He’s so, _so_ hungry, he feels sick with it.

“Would you like some food?” Splinter asks him gently. Mikey nods slowly, carefully. Splinter begins to shift out from under him. Terror floods Mikey then. He doesn’t want Splinter to leave, would rather starve than be alone right now. His hands shoot out, arms winding around Splinter’s middle and refusing to let him go. Splinter sighs and goes still, settling back down.

“Leonardo, would you mind—” Mikey feels Splinter’s body turn slightly, but that’s okay, as long as he’s not leaving. Splinter stops talking abruptly and Mikey peers up to see that Leo is gone.

Mikey wonders where his brother went.

He hopes he’ll come back soon.

“Michelangelo,” Splinter says delicately, and Mikey knows what’s coming, dreads it with every fibre of his being. “I must leave you for a moment.”

Mikey begins to shake his head, but thinks better of it. He stays very, very still. He holds on tighter.

“I will only be a moment.”

His stomach is doing somersaults when Splinter pries away his hands with ease, extricating himself from Mikey’s grasp. He quickly grows cold, curling in on himself once more.

How a moment can feel like an eternity he doesn’t know, but he’s been experiencing that a lot lately.

Still, even after days of torture and pains he could never before have imagined, he finds it more unbearable to give up a comfort so desperately needed as Splinter’s presence - his soothing touch, his warm, steadfast aura. Mikey misses it immediately, and fiercely. He begins to shiver, though he does not take notice, too lost in grisly thoughts.

Then - at last, it feels like it’s been _hours_ \- Splinter is back and Mikey finds his head being carefully lifted into his father’s lap, a bottle of water hovering near his lips. Splinter tilts it carefully, dribbling the cool liquid into his mouth. Mikey lets it drip to the back of his throat, swallows as best he can.

It hurts, but he’s so thirsty, he can’t stop,. He becomes greedy, taking more into his mouth until he chokes on it. He has to turn his head, water dribbles out the sides of his mouth. Splinter hums in concern, sets the bottle aside. When Mikey is recovered, he says, “I have some soup for you.” He strokes the top of his head lightly, asks, “can you sit up?”

Mike’s not sure he can, but the promise of food has him pushing to do so. With Splinter’s assistance, he manages, leans back against the wall panting until a wave of dizziness passes.

How long has it been since he last sat up? A week? Maybe more. Long enough for the feeling to be completely alien to him. He sags against Splinter sitting perpendicular to him, feels the way his jaw dangles crooked at the bottom of his face.

How was he supposed to…?

Apparently Splinter shares his disquiet. He is frowning, puzzled, a spoon caught between the fingers of one hand, a white porcelain bowl in the other. When he sees the way Mikey’s mouth hangs open, gets a good look at the spectacular bruising that adorns his face, his ears drop flat against his head, his whiskers droop sadly.

“What has happened, my son?” he asks, in a tight voice.

Mikey shrugs helplessly, blinking at him. How can he possibly explain? Especially when…

He can smell the soup and _that_ is a new type of torture.

His stomach roils, gurgling loudly, aching hollowly like it hasn’t in days. He points to the bowl in Splinter’s hands, looks pleadingly at his father.

Splinter looks torn, looks absolutely clueless in a way Mikey has never seen before. Splinter lifts a spoonful towards him, hesitates, but Mikey does not. He carefully takes the spoon into his mouth, lifts his face until his tongue is resting against the metal. He points upwards, slowly tilting his head back, relieved when Splinter’s arm follows the motion, allowing the soup to dribble to the back of his throat just like the water.

It’s just broth, but it is easily the best thing Mikey’s ever tasted. He begins to cry again as the warm liquid trickles across his tongue - half pain, half joy - but he doesn’t let that stop him, gesturing impatiently at the bowl when Splinter pauses in his ministrations. In this way, Mikey manages to eat almost half the meal with Splinter feeding him spoonful after patient spoonful.

After a while, he turns his head away, unable to stomach another bite. He can’t force his aching jaw to swallow anymore. Besides, he is beginning to feel tired. He starts to list sideways against Splinter, who sets the soup aside, shifts, allowing Mikey to lay back down in his lap.

A few moments pass in near-comfortable silence while Mikey enjoys the feeling of being warm and full and safe.

He should have known better, he thinks when a commotion startles him out of a light doze. This was too good to be true.

He hears a pained howl. It’s a horrible noise, and it is _badbadbad_. He begins to tremble again, but suddenly there is no one there to make it better, because Splinter is leaving again, gone before Mikey can stop him.

The cold floor holds him, makes him think of metal tables. Panic chews on his insides. Somewhere, once again, Raphael is screaming. Mikey lies alone, afraid for his brother. 

He feels like he should be screaming too.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mikey's been through the mill, his behavior will make sense eventually, I promise. Everything will make sense eventually. Next chapter is going to be really intense, so I thought I'd leave this as a standalone.


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